


Through a glass darkly

by Claudia_flies



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cover identities, Espionage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fucking Under Cover, MCU Kink Bingo, Sex Tape, being filmed without consent, spy games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 05:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: She's pressing Clint against the door, her body flush with his. Kissing his neck, taking the lobe of his ear between her teeth and whispering “camera, at your six and eleven o’clock.”





	Through a glass darkly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round 2 of the MCU Kink Bingo, square "Making a Sex Tape" because we need more Clintasha in the world.
> 
> Beta'd by Zilia.

 

 

The hotel manages to be both luxurious and completely nondescript. It could be anywhere in the world as they walk down those plush, bland corridors. The beading of her dress makes it heavy, makes the train drag on the floor, pressing the fabric into each and every curve of her body, as it’s designed to do. The silk rubs against her ass and her tits; her nipples have been hard for hours. Distracting to the men around her, making them forget their codes of silence.

Sometimes she wants to laugh at how easy it all is.

Clint’s hand is still in her own, holding her arm over his in the proprietary way that men are wont to do. His other palm over her hand, just to make sure everyone sees those little signs of ownership. He is, after all, very good at pretending, almost as good at the charade as she is.

He opens the door with a swipe of the key-card and the light on the lock turns green. It only takes a moment when they enter, a fraction of a second, and then she’s turning around. Pressing Clint against the door, her body flush with his. Kissing his neck, taking the lobe of his ear between her teeth and whispering “camera, at your six and eleven o’clock.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise for either of them. Not considering the stakes of the game.

Clint nods minutely, hands sliding down her back and over her hips. The silk of the dress slides between his palms and her skin, the heavy beading pebbled, making her breath catch. She doesn’t hide the noise. She doesn’t know if they have sound yet, not enough time for a proper sweep, not without blowing their covers out of the water.

There are things that are expected of powerful, wasteful men. Especially powerful, wasteful men who are with women who look like Natasha does right now. So she throws her head back, letting a cascade of red fall down her back as Clint gropes her ass. It’ll look good for the cameras. Distracting. Distracting enough for her to slide her hand into Clint’s pocket and turn off the small SHIELD wire sewn into the lining.

They only need one audience for this, she thinks viciously. It’s a surprise to her that she doesn’t want this to ever be SHIELD’s. Not for them to analyze and deliberate over. She thought that she had no lines in the sand left, nothing left to cross, and it’s both a delight and a concern to find one now.

Clint nods into her shoulder, and then kisses the skin there. It’s strangely sweet and tender, and she wonders how it looks to the cameras just so that she doesn’t have to consider how it feels for her. Neither of them are themselves this evening, but then are they ever, she wonders. Are they ever true to one another in a way that human beings generally are? She knows that she isn’t, doesn’t know how anymore, but she wonders about Clint. Wonders about those earnest Iowa farm-boy eyes. That optimism that stayed his hand when it came to her so long ago.

She slides down his body, falling to her knees like it’s a performance, and of course it is, one way or another. Pulling down the zipper of his superbly tailored pants. No expense spared for their covers. The wool is rich and buttery under her hands as she peels it away and hooks her fingers into the waistband of his brand-new underwear. It even smells new, no hint of that rough-and-tumble man who went without a shower for two weeks in Budapest.

She buries her face into his groin, trying to chase that smell of him, looking for something familiar. Her bright red lipstick leaves marks around his cock, a perfect circle right at the base as she swallows him to the root. Pressing her fingers into the divot at his hip bones. Forcing deep half-moons into his skin. They’ll stay there, she thinks, under his clothing when this is all over. After the mission is done and the debrief over, they’ll still be there, for only her to know about.

She pushes harder, until he gasps, almost saying her name, almost breaking, and Natasha needs that. She’s done this so many times with so many different people. Marks and agents and covers, and it’s always been the same.

Until now.

Until right this moment, with Clint’s hands in her hair, carding through it, and there’s something so achingly gentle about it that it makes Natasha stutter. Stop mid-flow with her lips still stretched around him. His eyes are strangely, vividly green as they look down at her, pleading. She doesn’t know what for.

He can’t say her name here, but he doesn’t say the name of her cover either.

So, she licks the underside of his cock, pulling back and letting the head rest on her tongue. His flesh is salty and bitter, and she’s never really had an opinion on the taste. Only about her own excellence at this, but _this_. This she wants to remember.

He doesn’t let her finish him there, on her knees by the door. She wonders if it’s some kind of the misplaced heroism he’s wont to display on an occasion. Maybe he’s just taking his chance. It’s not like either one of them would let this happen at any other time.

Too professional, too cold, too tied up by rules and regulations and SHIELD’s watchful eyes.

He pushes her backward, herding her to the plush king-size bed that had come with the suite. She had laughed girlishly as they’d opened the door, keeping her cover even for the bellhop. Now, his hands grip the fabric of her dress, gathering it in his fists, lifting it until his fingers meet flesh. Sliding his thumbs into the crease of her thigh and hip where the skin is thin and sensitive. Maybe it’s the only place left of her not hardened by the life they lead, because her breath catches again and she sees no reason to hide the sound. From him or the cameras watching.

She lies down on the bed, spreading her thighs, heedless of her own nakedness. Dresses like these are not worn with underwear. It’s what makes them so powerful, so distracting. Those wondering gazes which had followed her all evening. Asking, questioning if she wore anything underneath.

Clint doesn’t question or wonder. His face is focused, almost tense as he presses two fingers between her legs, between the lips of her pussy, and she’s already wet. That’s a skill she’s always had, making them think she wants them, making it seem so very real, but this time it’s not a pretense and she wonders if he knows that. Suddenly, viscerally, she wants him to know it. To know her in ways that others have not, for it to be real. For her and him, under the masks and guises of their covers, for it to be real for once.

He slides to his knees in turn, and she wants to tell him that men like him do not go on their knees for anyone, let alone their women, but it’s too late now. He mouths her open, lips and tongue, and maybe he speaks her name too, a soft puff of air. Like he wants her to know that he knows who she really is.

She hates how good he is at it. How it makes breath stutter in her lungs, makes her kick out without even meaning to. She doesn’t pull on his hair or direct his mouth, because her cover would not and she must think of the cameras while he licks into her cunt and presses his thumbs over her clit again and again and again.

She pulls him up by his shoulders, by his elbows, furious and needy. Spreading her legs even further, trying to think of the show for the cameras still, as she presses the heel of her impractically high shoe into the plush coverlet on the bed. She wonders if there is color, if they can see the bright red sole, that show of wealth.

Clint slides inside her and, oh, it feels different. She has to close her eyes against the feeling lest it show on her face. She counts to ten, feels the slow steady thrust of his body and finally looks up at him. Clint looks startled, and she hopes it doesn’t show to the cameras, hopes that she’s the only one capturing this moment. Her retinas the only lens and her brain the only thing recording the moment.

They fuck with most of their clothes still on, the silk and beading rucked up under her back, pressing into her skin. His pants caught around his knees and suit jacket thrown somewhere on the floor. It’d be funny if it wasn’t.

She presses her nails into the fleshy part of his ass, making him slow down, making it last. She wants it to last. They don’t kiss and she’s grateful for it, fearing it would show too much of her, the real her.

“Fuck,” he says against her cheek, and it’s so quiet it’s almost like a breath.

She knows he’s close, can feel it in the strain of his body, the tightness of his back under her hands. She could just ride it, throw her head back and make it look good for the cameras, but she doesn’t want it to be fake, not to him. So she slips her hand between their bodies and rubs down over her clit, one, two, three sharp and sweet strokes, and she’s coming. Cunt tightly contracting around his thick cock.

It feels good, better than it does by herself, which is a new kind of revelation in itself. She doesn’t throw her head back or moan, just keeps him tight to her, fingers of her other hand at the back of his neck, keeping him looking right at her. Willing him to see her.

And maybe he does, just for a fraction of a second, until his eyes close and he comes too, thrusting short and sharp until he’s pressed so deep inside her she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be truly rid of him. He breathes against her neck, soft puffs of air like a benediction, and she takes them, damning herself all the while.

They shower separately, buying time. There’s a camera in the bathroom too, but no one will look too closely if a lady rummages around her wash bag for several minutes, or carries her make-up purse with her into the bedroom in preparation for going to sleep.

It gives them enough time to clock the cameras fully. No sound and no night vision, which is one blessing on this godforsaken mission, so they both get ready for bed. Grateful for the thick blackout curtains as the room falls into darkness. Both sliding under the thick blankets, feigning a rest.

Suiting up without lights is easier than she would have thought. The layout of the room already mapped in her head, and years of practice have honed those automatic movements of sliding her guns into place. They count four minutes from the flash of light that must have registered on the cameras as they swing out from the window and abseil down to the ground floor.

It’s faster than the elevator, and they make it to the security center with thirty seconds to spare.

Afterwards, they zip-tie the bodies together and she helps Clint roll them into the storage cupboard before they get to the proper work. With the passcodes and knowledge of the system gleaned earlier in the evening, it’s child's play. Once everything relevant has been sent to SHIELD, Natasha goes looking for the security footage. It’s still in its original folder, marked only by a time-stamp. Innocuous in its banality.

She copies the footage over to an unmarked pen drive and deletes if from everywhere else. Rooting viciously through the computer. There are things that she will not give, not to SHIELD, not to anyone now. Not when she has only discovered them for herself.

She looks over at Clint, bent over the backup drives while he takes them apart.

 _Well, maybe to someone,_ she thinks as she slides the pen drive into one of the hidden compartments of her suit.


End file.
